Chapter 11
Wake up dead. That particular paradox was the first conscious thought to form itself into Crys' head as he slowly began to surface from the depths of slumber. The first sensation he felt, unfortunately, was pain. Dull, throbbing, but distinct and unpleasant. The pain of wounds barely mended. It was during his extended convalescence shortly before and during the destruction of Dalaran that Crys had set a precedent on the next conundrum; slip back into blissful darkness, or wake up and face reality. The warmage was rarely in a situation where he could afford to coddle himself, and sometimes you just had to stop turning your head aside and take your medicine.
The familiar sight of his chambers came into gradually increasing focus as his eyelids peeled themselves from their ocular charges. His body was stiff from all the activity and stress of the previous night (how long ago had it actually been?) and he shifted, then regretted it as the movement made the dagger wound in his shoulder pulse angrily. Ah yes, that one. The elf's hair felt like it clung to his scalp, but a quickly sharpening mind and grasp on the situation corrected the assessment by concluding it was, in fact, bandages and not hair. Simultaneously, Crys noticed that he was not alone in the chamber, that Daghmor sat perched on a wooden chair with a padded seat by the chamber door, half-empty snifter in hand, and his brain reminded him of something terribly important and almost forgotten till that moment. His right hand. The sword blade.
His eyes never leaving the dwarf but instead changing focus as the elf's right hand moved mechanically into his line of sight. There, neatly bandaged with a tight little bow at the base of the finger, was what was left of his smallest digit on that hand. It had been severed from the first knuckle down, and, while logically it seemed such a small thing to lose in a life-or-death struggle, Crys' logic couldn't fully suppress the feeling of being diminished somehow. Something that had been used, stubbed, pointed, manipulated, cut, and stained over the course of his whole life was simply not there anymore. Daghmor grunted as he regarded the prone wizard's dismay, shaking his head and speaking into his brandy glass he had supped a tiny amount of the throat-burning liquid.
" Healers. I've seen those that can raise the recently dead back to life, but they'll be damned if they can re-attach a severed extremity like half a finger. It's like a smith bein' able to bang out a suit of full-plate but unable ta make even a single ring for a suit of chain mail. "
Crys shook his head, pushing himself to an upright position with his left arm instead of his right to avoid more unnecessary pain.
" Or fully cure a leg crushed by a catapult shot, " the elf added. " I consider myself lucky though, it could have just as easily been all fingers, or hand, or forearm. I can still wield magic and handle the logistics of dressing myself quite well, I can't complain
over-much. "
" And I can still dodge a sword blow and give a man half-again as tall as me the thrashing of his lifetime, " the rogue returned, tilting his glass in a mock toast to the fates.
" Ah yes, the unfortunate you roughed up. He survived it I assume? "
" Broke his jaw, so he won't be talking fer awhile, but that paladin, Strongshield, said they've got mages for interrogations anyways. "
The embers of a headache flared up somewhere behind Crys' eyes, the pain previously lying dormant by his inactivity. Crys could also feel the pain being stoked by each beat of his heart, as if the pain in his right hand and shoulder were not bad enough. Wincing, his faculties now coming back to their usual vigor, he asked;
" What of Thedor, and the elven councilman? "
Daghmor pursed his lips before speaking, staring off as if he were reciting something trivial or redundant.
" The smith got his cuts all bandaged up and still made his quota for the night. Probably feel asleep on the same cot we saw there, getting some poor apprentice to mop up all the blood and water. I suppose, as a dwarf I should respect that, but, I'm not a masochist. Haven't been for a long time. "
As the dwarf spoke Crys reached up with his right hand, then returned it to the bed covers, and reached up with his left hand, fingers exploring the linen circlet wrapped around his head. His wince became more pronounced as his fingers drifted over the spot where…what had happened there, exactly?
Daghmor had looked back to the prone wizard, noting his inability to understand the bandages encircling his crown.
" That bump on your head was probably the worst injury you took, the healers said. Concussion, and split the skin open too, bled like crazy but once it was cleaned up it wasn't too bad. Everything else was flesh wounds, nothing permanent except scars…like we both need any more of those. "
Crys remembered now, though not clearly. He was speaking with the smith after the fight, and that was it. He must have blacked out. Considering the circumstances it was understandable.
" What of the elven councilman? " the warmage queried, remembering his line of questioning.
The rogue gave a small shrug. " Dunno. I was only able to speak to the paladin for a few breaths before they came in with a stretcher for you. They looked me over too and sent me on my way. "
Crys gave a small nod in understanding, still wanting for information about the other potential target, but unable to satisfy it for the moment.
Eyes squinting and jaw muscles tight against the mounting pain Crys swung his legs over the side of the bed, noting that he was wearing a blue silk tunic and a pair of rough wool leggings dyed black. A quick search turned up his clothing and other accruements resting atop a small writing desk that occupied the far corner of the room. His clothes looked laundered too. His search ended as his eyes rested on the room's only window, facing south and shuttered currently.
" What time is it? "
" We will be hearing the bells for the third watch presently, I think, " the dwarf replied distractedly, draining his glass and licking the last of the flavorful liquor from his lips.
The elf sat dumbfounded, until a chuckle and a response from the dwarven rogue ended his confusion.
" You've been out for nearly four watches, lad. Almost a full day, " Daghmor said, bringing a finger up and tapping his temple, " as I said, the blow to the head was your worst injury. Trust an elf to swoon in the middle of a battle, " he jibed, grinning broadly.
Crys sniffed, fixing his companion with a withering gaze.
" It was not the middle of the battle, but one that was over. Three of them had fallen to me directly, and I had a hand in the other two, and all two thick-skulled dwarves were able to do is hold them at bay. This on top of a dagger in the shoulder, a severed albeit small appendage, and a considerable amount of blood loss…" the elven warmage responded acidly, but Dagh interrupted him with more chuckling and a dismissive waving of his hand.
" Aye, aye. They'll be singing praises of your prowess for years to come. I especially like the part where your ice spell trapped your daring companion as well as your assailants. "
Crys opened his mouth for another rejoinder but instead snapped it shut. He was in too much pain and too weary for this foolishness. That ember of pain was now a cheerfully burning fire of agony, and his stomach was a yawning pit of hunger paired with the icy touch of the magic addiction, gnawing at his reserves of strength. Rising stiffly to his feet the elf wizard wished for his staff now more than ever, shuffling to the bedroom's door. He paused there, his expression freeing itself from its previous mask of resolute wincing, becoming one a mixture of both incredulousness and surprise.
" You remained here with me, the whole time? " Crys asked, a grin splaying across his face as he watched an equally stiff Daghmor slide from the straight-backed chair, " I didn't know you felt so deeply for me. "
" Ah now don't be getting sentimental on me. I was just making sure my meal ticket made it through the night, " the rogue smirked, reaching down and jingling a coin purse filled with its namesakes. " That, and your brandy is excellent. Now come on, we'll get you something to eat, a soft chair to sit in by the fire, and make you the envy of every dwarf who ever lived; by having the headache first but getting to the drinking after. "
A plate of pan-seared chicken breasts in a white wine and shallot sauce with a side of diced fried potatoes, a snifter of the remainder of the excellent Mclure brandy that Daghmor had not yet gotten to, and a comfortable chair by the fire later, Crys was feeling considerably better. The nausea he had experienced when first awaking yielded to the excellently prepared meal made by Greymere Tower's ever-present kitchen staff, and returning to a more or less immobile state cradled by the green velvet of his easy chair Crys'annadath did not suffer the full brunt of his headache or other pains any longer. Daghmor had contented himself with tackling the rest of the robust red wine he had enjoyed with nearly all of a beef roast eaten some time earlier, the elf too sedate to make a fuss over the dwarf drinking it from a pewter stein.
" Of all the things to miss from the old world, I wouldn't have guessed that this would have been one of the most painful to see leave, " the elven wizard mused, regarding the finger of brandy he had remaining in his nearly ball-shaped glass, then scowling darkly over the painful pun that his mind had created regarding a measure of alcohol and his recently severed extremity. Daghmor nodded sagely at the statement, serious about few things as much as his booze.
" Aye, lad. Aye. I'm fortunate enough that there's some passable brewers in Theramore that come over with the ships to make ale like there was back in Ironforge. Just a pity they have to charge so much because the grains are so scarce and most goes to flour making. "
Crys swirled the dark liquid around to agitate the flavors and sniffed gently, detecting the hint of apple that had been added during distillation.
" This brandy was the best anyone could reasonably afford back on Lordaeron. The Mclure Vineyards accounted for nearly a third of the total wine and brandy production for Azeroth, and the cognacs, well, they were reserved for the royal and distinguished noble households only. I could purchase an entire farm for the cost on one of those bottles, " the warmage shook his head at the thought, his previous scowl disappearing.
" Ever tried some of that Darkspear rum? Made me think twice about swinging an axe at a troll, if you can believe it. "
Crys snorted and shook his head in disbelief. " In Silvermoon you could get thrown out of most reputable establishments for even saying the word 'troll'. I wouldn't trust anything that comes from the kegs of a race that can grow back severed limbs, " he remarked, then grinding his teeth as something related to his recent finger injury had managed to crop up again.
" We can't afford to be picky, you and I. Far too few dwarven lasses came over with the ships, and whatever passes for elven women too. Ones like us, we need our vices to keep us going, and I'll take a good ale over some long-legged human girl any day of the month. But then, I'm not you… " Dagh's chuckle bouncing around the inside of this stein as he took another drink.
" Another jibe at my infatuation with Jaina. How droll, " the elf commented dryly, about to make a scathing counter-point when there was a knock at the door. The two regarded one another as if one would suddenly draw a conclusion as to who it was, but when no revelation was forthcoming, Crys rose reluctantly from his chair and shuffled over to the door.
The door's magicks having been temporarily disabled as the then unconscious Crys had been carried in, but had long since then resumed their incapacitating power. Speaking the disarming command quickly in case the visitor decided to get impatient and try the door handle, Crys'annadath opened it and the broad frame of Strongshield in his plate armor was revealed in the fading light of day. Plumed helmet tucked under one arm the paladin of the Silver Hand bowed his head slightly in greeting before speaking.
" Good eve. I trust you are feeling better than you did the night previous? "
It was the typical sort of pleasantry one would exchange before getting to the heart of the matter, and one which Crys, injuries throbbing again from this movement, was all to happy to dispense with quickly.
" I'll mend. What news do you have of the elven councilman. My companion had said you had no time to speak on the subject last night. "
Strongshield nodded. " Quite. I had decided to remain at the councilman in question's estate last night, along with a hand-picked cadre of my guards. We weren't wanting for activity. Five assassins were sent, just like at the smithy, though the councilman was no sort of war hero. We took two captives from that little encounter, making three including the one that the dwarf had beaten to a pulp, " the paladin continued, glancing past Crys as a gesture to the still unseen rogue.
" The interrogations were thorough, Lady Proudmoore herself taking a short time from her schedule to mind probe one of the prisoners. The results, were, however, predictably disappointing. The usual drill of former militia men with no war to fight and no skills other than warfare down on their luck and blaming the establishment for their woes. We're looking into what contacts we've managed to get from them, but I'm more than willing to bet we'll find it to be a cell-based organization with no two of the same contacts between any of them. The typical and ideal set up for a resistance movement. The disturbing part is the somewhat religious zeal that the assassins have regard this 'Master' of theirs, more cult sounding than any sort of military-guerilla cabal. "
" That usually happens when magic is involved, " Crys interjected quickly. " Magic is the province of god-like beings when perceived by lay folk, but more closely related to the working of a wood-wind instrument in practice. That, coupled with the necromantic hallmarks of the organ collection and disposal of the first body, I'm not at all surprised. "
Strongshield shifted his weight as Crys spoke of cults and necromancy, remaining impassive until the elf was finished. " Yes. Well at any rate, despite the apparent organization of this group, the acceleration of their schedule to two a night, and moving forward without their most skilled killer speaks volumes about their desired time-table, one which with our respective operations have foiled. We managed to recover the tell-tale notes that were to have been left on the bodies. The one for the dwarven smithy read 'every death and I get stronger ' while the one that was going to be left on the councilman's corpse was; ' the streets shall drink deep the blood of man'. Grisly poetics are rarely the trademark of the sound-minded military sort, and sounding very much like this was all leading up to something grander, some bloody finale. What remains now is whether this organization will strike again, more violently and desperately now that they are close to their goal, or abandon it for fear of making a critical error that will lead us to the major players in all of this. "
Crys could only nod in agreement at that assessment. The collected body parts had some sort of significance other than random mutilation, and with whatever that purpose was, anybody who was willing to cut out hearts and drain blood would have few compunctions about doing whatever was necessary to see their plans realized. This was almost over, but the time for counting bodies may not be.
" Thank you for the report, Sir Strongshield. Will there be anything else? " the elven warmage prompted.
The paladin nodded and took a step forward, leaning in close to the wizard. " Bar my doors and windows for the next few nights, I would if I were in your place. It may not be just needing a dwarf and an elf dead that brings some vengeful persons to your chambers in the dead of the night. I'll post more guards by the tower base, and I know full well the sorts of wards and spells present in a wizard's home, but be wary all the same. You both are too involved in this not to have been noticed by the cult's leaders. "
The concept was so obvious that Crys nearly stuck himself for not having come to the conclusion sooner. They would have made the perfect pair, the proverbial two birds with one stone. The warmage had been so involved in picking the crimes and events apart that he had failed to remember that he had, in turn, become a part of them. The paranoia that had touched him when he first learned about these murders fairly grabbed him now.
" Yes. Of course. It was foolhardy of me not have seen it earlier. Thank you. Safe travels to you as well. "
With that Strongshield did a shallow bow of farewell, and after wheeling sharply to his right and re-adjusting his grip on his helm, began descending the spiral stairs. Still in a bit of a daze Crys closed the door and recited the door's protective ward, slowly returning to his seat. The elf admitted that he had been lucky to this point, the shadowy organizer of these series of assassinations too focused on his own goals and agenda to be bothered with a semi-retired drunk of a wizard and his ne'er-do-well companion poking their noses into their business after the fact. But now, however….
" So what did the mustachioed suit of armor say? " Daghmor asked, noting the concerned look on the elf's face as he returned to the fire side. Crys had to blink rapidly a few times to bring himself out of his introspective state. It wasn't the thought of someone wishing him dead that troubled the wizard so much, but the fact that he hadn't seriously entertained the concept until now.
" Just that there wasn't much to be learned from the prisoners that they managed to get, and that we should be guarding our backs a little more closely now that we've managed to throw a rather large stick into the spokes of their wagon wheel. "
Daghmor just nodded, nonplussed. " True enough. They'll likely be sending ten men after you and me if they send one. Can't afford any slip-ups or failures at this stage of the game. "
Crys was agape at the dwarf's calm in the face of a possible assassination. Daghmor noticed the look and chuckled in his trademark way. " What's the fuss? Never slept with a weapon under your pillow waiting for that fellow caravan guard down on his luck who's been eyeing your boots all day to make a move? Never hid behind a few crates of rotting apples in an alley while a thug and several of his friends scoured the area for you looking to settle an old gambling debt? What do they teach you in those alabaster towers of magecraft, hmm? "
The elf had forgotten the sort of circles that Daghmor had done some running in during his past. Years of rough nights under the open stars or cramped jail cells, waiting from an attack from bandits or fellow inmates. Military life was tough enough, but at least there the vast majority of soldiers slept amongst their fellows, fellows they could trust their lives with and often did. Frankly, it was a world Crys wanted nothing to do with.
" Would you believe that in my graduating class of wizardry from Dalaran I was voted least likely to die in a gutter with a shiv in my back? "
" Don't fret, lad. There's time enough for all that to happen yet. "
Time, like grains of sand, was slipping between his clawed fingers, and Suul Dracol was possessed of the most intense anger because of it. All of the assassins he had sent out had met with failure, either dead or detained. His choice of agents in Theramore was pretty much limited to ex-military men down on their luck and walking along the border between honest work and a drunk in a gutter somewhere, and while they knew how to swing a sword, the fine art of stealthy killing was beyond their grasp. Suul thought he had sent his best, but once again the has-been elf mage and his drunkard guttersnipe companion had proven the stronger. Suul needed Golonda, with but one day left to complete his objectives. Considering the alternative made the dreadlord even angrier, snatching up a rat that been set aside for experiments and took some pleasure in slowly crushing the furry rodent to death in his supernaturally strong grip.
Leetha. He needed Leetha. Now.
Gripping onto the thought like a drowning man onto a piece of flotsam Suul tossed the ruined body of the rat to some remote corner and concentrated on summoning his servant, whispering her name past his ivory fangs, pushing the sound out with his long pointed tongue. Moments passed, and Suul's rage began to increase again, stoked by his impatience, but he soon felt the unearthly chill of his servant as she rose out of the stones behind him, from her dreadful sleep in some dark and forgotten tunnel that had collapsed and suffocated three dwarven excavators, curled up on their moldering bones like a cat on a plump cushion.
The Nathrezim regarded the banshee as he had many times before, his dark heart enraptured by her eternal torment, her talent with suffering and pain. An expert torturer she could drain tiny snippets of happy memories with the barest rake of her inhumanly long fingers tipped in splintered fingernails as black as rot. Slowly, ever so slowly the torture victim would be unable to seek refuge in his memories of better times, as disjointed and unsatisfying as they had become, and tell her everything she wanted to know…which was only the beginning of his pain. Hope was a torturer's greatest foe, and Leetha disposed of that little obstacle as easily as a more conventional masochist discarded used, blood-caked bandages. She was perfect for this job.
She was elven, all banshees were, her angular and delicate features more drawn and sallow looking in her current incorporeal state. She was draped in a ghostly dress that drifted into empty tatters rather than legs, the plunging neckline revealing perhaps the only overtly pleasant feature about her, cleavage lush enough that it could, if only for a tiny moment, take the focus off of her other more horrific aspects. The irises of her almond-shaped eyes were the only bit of color left on her ghostly form, everything else was shades of grey and white. Like frozen water those pale blue eyes were, the thin kind that promised safe passage but instead lead to a freezing, choking death with no chance of escape. Suul loved her eyes, her way of looking at everyone and everything with only the purest of thought processes going through her mind: how can I inflict more suffering on this thing before me?
The banshee's cool, calculating gaze soothed Dracol somewhat, knowing he dealt with one who took her tasks seriously because, just like Golonda, Leetha had a debt to pay. The dreadlord extended his right arm in a scooping motion, and with only the slightest pause the undead elf presented the back of her right hand, the demon cradling her fingers gently and pressing his lips to her ethereal flesh. The contact burned pleasantly, like it always did, a rush of cold necromantic fire against his thin lips. Rising up from his slightly stooped position as his left hand sought out a small leather pouch hanging from his belt, then when his right had abandoned Leetha's hand it retained its cupped position as he poured the contents of the pouch into his palm. Two pale objects landed into his hand, there were the only two left. The pair of objects were fingers, desiccated and leathery, the fingernails long since fallen off. The slim, tapering fingers of a woman who had strangled her child. Leetha's fingers.
" Two, " the banshee said breathlessly, her words lingering in the air long after her mouth had ceased to move, " only two more remain, Suul, then I am free to do as I please. "
This had part of the reason he had been reluctant to summon her previous, but times were getting desperate and all his resources would be meaningless if he failed in this task. Simple things like torture were done pro bono, as it were, the always banshee eager to inflict torment and misery on a new victim still full of life, but for more complex and extended tasks (not to say that Leetha's torture victims didn't last a long time) required the expenditure of these tokens of Suul's control over her.
" It hasn't been too hard on you, has it dear? " the dreadlord placated, his features creasing into a look of concerned worry. " Your time with me has been full of pain and suffering, is that not a reason to stay in and of itself? "
The ghostly elf shrugged slightly, that tiny movement enough to, had she been living and wearing an actual dress as tattered as that one, have left her torso nude.
" Servitude to you has been a duet of torments, Suul. The torment inflicted during my service, and from my service. I seek freedom to realize my own goals. There's many who must die, slowly, and only the consolation of knowing that every year that passes gives me more happy memories to eventually strip away keeps me patient. Now, the task. You wouldn't have brought those things into my sight unless you needed something more this time, or have you taken to torturing me in your free time? " she pouted, her movements and facial expression would have been charming in their feminine way were her appearance not so the antithesis of a mortal woman.
Maneuvering one of the fingers into his grasp Suul Dracol tossed it into the air at her like one would a treat to a loyal hound, and with a mouth that distended like that of a serpent swallowing an egg, and a wobbling of spectral breasts, the finger disappeared inside Leetha. She chewed eagerly, the finger turning to black ash then nothing as it traveled down her translucent neck, once again becoming a part of her. Leetha didn't actually require any nourishment and possessed all of her digits in her ghostly form, but the lingering emotion charge left on those fingers of a murderer, sealed away with nether magics, was what she relished. A step closer to completion, and freedom.
Suul returned the last withered finger to the pouch and replaced the pouch on his belt.
" Oh Suul, I will miss our times together. I might be persuaded to stay a bit longer if you were to give me that Kaldorei female you have on your leash. I can feel her anger and sorrow twenty feet below her chambers. So much death and cruelty in the name of lost love, " she squealed, the following growl of hunger from the base of her throat almost sexual in tone. Suul fairly shivered at her demeanor, the shudder nothing less than a display of utter rapture.
" We will see, dear Leetha, " Suul began, showing all his teeth in a broad, feral grin,
" but now, the task at hand. Let me tell you all we know about a cleaning maid named Sarah…. "
